Free The Messenger (A Lesbian Romance) by K.C. Blake Page A

 
    “Any luck with the filly behind the bar?”, I asked.
    He looked surprised to be caught, but then shook his head sadly.  
    “No joy. Maybe if I lost ten or fifteen pounds.”
    “Or years”, I said, scoring the first friendly jab in our conversation, thereby setting into motion another sickeningly familiar rhythm, this time with someone who had known me for most of my adult life. Mitchell winced. Maybe that was a little close to the bone.  
    “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe if I’d had that work done.”  
    He began to gently pinch the flesh around his jawline. God, he’s as vain as a teenage girl , I thought. I didn’t know what nerve I’d hit, but I was beginning to feel guilty, like I’d unknowingly said something he’d heard me say in a nightmare.  
    Not knowing what else to say, I started drinking. Thankfully, he followed suit. We sat in perfect silence. For a moment, I thought that this had indeed been an invitation for just a drink.  
    “So I noticed something”, he began. Here we go , I thought. I didn’t even respond. I just swirled the ice around in my drink and gave him one of my unblinking gazes that told him to tread carefully.  
    “Actually we noticed something… “
    Now this was concerning.  
    “ We?” The only person Mitchell could mean was the managing board of the firm, the people who had founded this growing empire. Mitchell has become a de facto liaison between them and the rest of the executives, and wouldn’t let anyone forget about it. I feared disappointing them like I feared disappointing my parents. They’d hired me as a mail girl my freshman year of college and had nurtured me to heights I could never have imagined. My blood flashed cold for a second at the thought of me coming to their attention in a negative manner, but I didn’t dare let it show.  
    “We noticed that you’re not as excited as you used to be. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still the fucking champ, but I’m asking you as a friend - you okay?”
    How to begin? I looked around at the bar. Before I knew what was happening, I felt tears burning behind my eyes. What the fuck? I fought them back with everything I had. It felt like an unforgivable amount of time had passed before I could look at Mitchell again.  
    “Things are great”, I lied, hoping that he’d buy it. He searched my face. The guy had known me for almost twenty years. I didn’t know how I’d wriggle out of this one.
    “Well, that’s just fantastic, Lucy. The board will be thrilled to hear it.”
    He downed the rest of his drink, holding up a finger to let me know that he had another round in him. He gathered up both our glasses and returned to the bar, emboldened to try again with the pretty bartender. I exhaled long and slow, feeling like I’d just survived some kind of weird interrogation. Somehow, Mitchell was on to me, sniffing out a problem before I’d wrapped my head around it. When Mitchell returned, I knew what my role was: I was to slag the competition and act like all I needed was some gin in me to be back to my old self.  
    The real answer was, of course, to keep working. To work harder than ever before. It began to feel like a midlife crisis. Where some of my male counterparts might go buy a convertible or start fucking the babysitter, I resolved to work harder. I started pulling all-nighters again, like I did just out of college. It didn’t work. Somewhere in all the frenzy, I expected to find something to scratch this strange new itch that rendered me restless and cranky. It didn’t happen.
    A few days later, as I paced my office in a kind of silent panic, a call came through from Margaret, my assistant. A document at the front needed my attention. Although I was doing nothing at all constructive, I bristled at the request to walk a few dozen feet to go sign my name, like she’d asked me to give her a pint of blood.  
    “Too fucking busy, Margaret, have them send it registered mail.” I had important carpet